


the doctor and the man who wove the clouds

by daleked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 02, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daleked/pseuds/daleked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of the story of the Cowherd and the Weaving Maiden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the doctor and the man who wove the clouds

**Author's Note:**

> When I was very little, this was one of my favourite stories (apart from Vasilisa the Beautiful). I hope I have done it justice. It has been heavily remodelled, but I tried to keep the essence the same. You can read about the original tale [here](http://www.china.org.cn/english/features/Festivals/78315.htm).

Sit down, dear one, and let me wipe your nose. Don't blow it so! I will tell you a tale of two lovers, no, not the one of the woman and the man who carved cavernous tunnels into the mountainside to meet against the wishes of their tribes, but one that was born in this very city we are living in now. Hush! Let me begin.

+

A long time ago, there was a man. His name was John Watson. He ran a small practice in the countryside where he lived, and was unobtrusive and polite. He had grown up there as a youth before going off to war, returning years later with a wounded shoulder and a limp. He had been back for a month when his sister, Harriet, took to drinking and fell into despair. She had a devoted wife, Clara, who farmed with Harriet in the day. Poor Harriet was unable to care for the both of them, and John packed his bags and saluted Clara before he left.

"I cannot burden you much longer," John said, and bowed from the waist. He had all his worldly possessions with him-- the tools of his trade, a little case of food and clothes, and a bottle of water. Clara cried and embraced John, and Harriet looked at them uncomprehendingly from where she sat with a bottle of liquor.

"At least take Michael with you," Clara implored, and John gave in. He whistled and the little dog came trotting to stand beside John. Michael had been given to Clara and Harriet when he was a pup, and now Clara had given him to John.

"Protect him, little one, for he is dear to his sister, the poor fool who no longer recognises her brother's face." Michael barked once and licked Clara's hand. When John left, Michael did not look back and walked with him, as dogs do. Clara stood at the gate until they were both out of sight.

John took the train into London. A great big machine of fire-breath and loud noises did not scare Michael, who sat beside John's leg and wagged his tail politely at curious little girls. London loomed before them, and Michael followed John into the city. They had a small place, and John worked at a practice, and Michael stayed at home to guard the house. 

All was well.

Until one night, as John stood by the window and gazed at the stars whilst nursing a cold beer. Michael sat by his side and looked up at the stars with understanding, eyes too knowing for a little scottie dog.

"I am unhappy," John ventured timidly, to fill the silence. "I am lonely, I think."

"You are, indeed," Michael said, and John turned to gaze at his faithful companion in wonderment.

"You can talk!"

"Yes, John Watson. I can talk. Afghanistan had more stars, did it not?"

"Yes," John said softly. "The stars over war-torn lands shine brighter than they do here."

"I was Canis Major, once," Michael said. "Banished to earth for violating celestial rules. I did not let a star die, even though it had been foretold. And thus the Great Queen decreed I should come to earth and live a hundred years, which is but a hundred days in the heavens."

"Oh," John said, and knelt before his dog to look him in the eye. Michael looked back at him and wagged his tail, tongue lolling out.

"You are unhappy, John Watson, and I know how to fix that. Tomorrow, you will leave the house at ten and walk towards the central area of the city. You will come across a place named Baker Street, and the numbers on the green door you must enter are 221. You will speak to Mrs Hudson, and she will let you in. Take the coat with a red buttonhole from the coatpeg. Touch nothing else and conceal yourself." John nodded very seriously.

"So it shall be done," John said, and headed to his bedroom for a good night's rest. The next morning he put on a green coat and followed Michael's instructions. True enough, he soon came upon the street, and the door, and the woman named Mrs Hudson, who smiled at him and let him in. There was a soft buzz of voices coming from upstairs, but John ignored them and took the coat with the red buttonhole from the peg.

"There's a good hiding place inside my apartment, dear," Mrs Hudson said, and he entered her rooms. They sat and had biscuits and tea. After two hours, the voices stopped and the sound of footsteps came down the stairs.

"It's getting late. We should go, lest humans notice us." Said a voice. It was proper and posh and John squirmed in his seat behind the closed door.

"Yes," came a girlish one. "It is time." The coat pegs rattled and the sound of the main door opening made John sit up straighter.

"Has anyone seen my coat?" Came a new voice, a third one. "I can't go back without it!" 

"Find it yourself, Sherlock," said the first voice. "We'll be off first." And there was silence. John held his breath. Mrs Hudson had gone out and he was here alone.

The door swung open, and before John stood a tall man with gray eyes that seemed to look right through him. John got to his feet and held out the coat shyly, for the man was attractive and his purple shirt was too tight around his chest. The man took it from John and folded it in his arms.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John gaped.

"Michael told you about me?" Sherlock shook his head. "I _deduced_ it." They spent the next hour talking, and at the end of it, John found himself smitten. Sherlock was bright and assertive and the way he looked when he spoke about things he had no business knowing about was all-consuming. 

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and in the sky I am second only to the Great Queen. The dewdrops and the frost are my work, as are the clouds in the sky. The snow you see, John, not the yellow one that falls on London, but the clear, pure ones in the North... That is my handiwork. The rain that touched you in Afghanistan, and the mist that rolls into this place every evening. That is all me. The heavens are dull, which is why I spend much of my time here on earth."

"If heaven is that dull, why don't you stay on earth?" John blurted out. "You could stay with me, if you like." 

Sherlock scrutinised John.

"Yes," he said, and smiled. "I would like that very much."

And thus they lived. Michael asked to live with Mrs Hudson, as she was generous with treats, and Sherlock and John moved into the flat upstairs. Sherlock solved crimes and John healed people, and ran after Sherlock, and wrote about their experiences together. The rain and snow fell, and the mist rolled in every evening. Sherlock was timely and soon the snow that fell on London paled and turned pure again. 

In the sky, something brewed.

Lord of Spiders and Things One Saw Out of the Corner of Their Eye stared into his crystal plate. His name was whispered by the shadows, and the darkness fell at his feet. His name was Moriarty. He and Sherlock had long played a game between them, a strategic game of chess. One that Sherlock had left behind when he went to live on earth. Long ago, Moriarty had yellowed the snow, and Sherlock had sprinkled dew on spiders' webs to make them unusable. It was a bitter game that reached back into the past and continued into the future.

"Sherlock has abandoned the skies," Moriarty said softly. "The audacity of him." And presently he left the skies as well and descended into London, where Sherlock was playing the violin in the flat alone.

"You live in filth!" Moriarty spat, looking at the apparatus and skull on the mantelpiece with disdain. "You will be coming back with me. The game must continue, Sherlock, forever."

When John returned, the flat was in disarray and the windows were wide open.

"Sherlock!" John whispered, shocked, and knelt to touch the bow of the violin that had been snapped in two.

"He was taken," Michael said from the doorway, having come up after hearing the commotion from above. "He was taken by the Lord of the Spiders." There was laughter and John looked out to see Sherlock bound in glittering web, floating on a patch of darkness. A man stood beside him, and his eyes shone like silvery spiderwebs in the dark.

"These foolish mortals even hope to fly," Moriarty said, and off they went into the clouds.

"There is a way to follow them," Michael said. "And only one way. You must kill me, John Watson, and drape my skin over your shoulders. I swore to your good sister's wife that I would protect you, and I will protect your heart."

"You will never return to the heavens!" John cried, and held Michael.

"I will return, especially if there is an element of sacrifice in my death," Michael said gently. "Now, John Watson." When the deed was done and there was a small black cape on John's shoulders, Michael emerged as a shimmering cloud of gold from his corpse.

"There," Michael said. "Now we must give chase." Moriarty, seeing them hot on his heels, drew a gun and shot it across the stars.

"If you want to meet, you must cross the rift!" Moriarty called. "Johnny boy, enjoy my parting gift to you and to the great Sherlock Holmes.' The bullet travelled the length of the earth, rounding it once, and struck Moriarty in the back of the head. He collapsed and fell from the sky, the webs holding Sherlock melting away. There was a great rip in the sky between Sherlock and John now, and there was no way of crossing it. John neared it, determined. 

"John!" Sherlock yelled, the despair clear in his voice. "Stay back, please! There is no way of crossing this."

"He is right," Michael said. "But look! At the birds!"

There was the sound of wings, and many ravens flew up on both sides of the gap. They met to form a bridge, whereupon which Sherlock and John ran across to embrace each other.

"John," Sherlock whispered, and it felt as though all was right in the world again. There was a girlish giggle from behind Sherlock and they whirled around to see a woman standing there, her eyes the colour of the birds of paradise and underbelly of the grouse that hunt for seeds in bushes.

"I can only have enough power to do this once a year," she said. Sherlock looked at her pleadingly.

"Let me go with him, Molly," he pleaded, and John recalled her voice. She was there the first day he had met Sherlock. Molly shook her head.

"The Great Queen forbids it. You have a duty, Sherlock. Mycroft will only allow this meeting on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month every year." Sherlock turned back to John and held his face in his hands.

"Will you wait?" John nodded and fought the urge to cry. "I will, Sherlock."

"Come now, Sherlock," Molly said. "And you, brave Michael. I will lift you to the heavens once more." 

+

Since then, dear one, the people of the city have celebrated the seventh day of the seventh lunar month every year. The children capture and put small spinning spiders in matchboxes. If there is a well-spun web the next morning, they will break it and free the spider. If not, they are fed to the hungry birds that wait on every street corner.

It is often asked how the story ends. People speculate that John Watson continues living, and meets Sherlock every year, once a year. But I have seen the stars, little one, and there is a new constellation amongst them that is always hidden by the clouds. You might catch it on clear nights. It looks like the figures of two men running, one short and one tall, and their hands are clasped tightly, as if they will never part again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought of this.


End file.
